


Ashes

by tarysande



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/pseuds/tarysande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In place of the vengeance he’d thought so righteous, he was left with doubt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes

Rage, Sebastian Vael found as he walked away from Hawke, was a fuel that burned hot and fast, leaving regret and horror and despair in its wake.

By the time he reached the edge of Lowtown, his stomach ached with the memory—the too-fresh memory—of what had become of Elthina, his home, his _life_ , but in place of the vengeance he’d thought so righteous, he was left with doubt. Doubt and sorrow and the feeling of having perpetrated some irreparable betrayal.

Everything had happened so suddenly, and he’d spoken so _rashly_ —he knew, he knew his words had been impetuous—but the dismissive way Hawke had snapped _Do not interfere, Sebastian_ had added insult to already-crippling injury. As if he had no right to be horrified, to want to keep the abomination from walking free in the world after everything he’d done. After everyone he’d killed.

As if Sebastian didn’t matter. As if, after everything, he was nothing.

He’d always—perhaps foolishly—thought he’d meant something to Hawke. _I thought I knew you, Hawke._ He’d thought her the truest friend of his life. And she’d dismissed him, utterly and without explanation, because he dared be angry with her decision to simply _release_ a confessed murderer?

 _Do not interfere, Sebastian. We’re sending you to the Chantry in Kirkwall, Sebastian. No, no one will support your claim to Starkhaven, Sebastian. No, you cannot return to your duties as a brother, Sebastian. No, you’re not welcome. No, we don’t want you. You’re a disappointment. You’ve always been a disappointment._

 _Do not interfere._

Perhaps he had never known her at all.

Given that he’d been the one to leave, he could not fathom why the thought hurt half so much as it did, but oh, it cut deep.

Kirkwall was in disarray, ringing with screams, burning, _broken_. Above him, the sky was dark with more than night, more than cloud; a thick pall of ash hung over the city, a grim testament to the chantry’s passing. Struck by the sickening fear he might be breathing in the ashes of the dead, Sebastian turned his head and emptied his stomach on the stones.

Almost everyone he knew was gone.

Almost.

Somewhere, Hawke was fighting for her life.

And he had walked away from her.

 _Do not interfere, Sebastian._

Sebastian wanted to return, to _help_ — _I’ve never had so many opportunities to help people!_ —but he feared the monster might still be at her side, casting his spells, spreading his lies, dooming the world. So Sebastian stood in the middle of a Lowtown street, clenching his hands around his bow until his knuckles ached, torn, unable to move.

Just like always.

#

Sebastian holed up near the clinic in Darktown. He did not know why he’d gone there of all places, except a certainty no one would think to look for him in the domain that had once belonged to the mage.

Also, it was underground. And it was far from the ruined, smoking hole of the chantry. Given the option, he would rather breathe chokedamp than ashes.

If he had hoped the mage might return, might allow him to collect the debt—wreak the vengeance—Hawke had denied him, he was disappointed. The clinic sat dark and abandoned, and Sebastian was left with only the rats for company.

Fenris found him there three days later.

“Twice she let him live,” the elf said without preamble, his green eyes glinting with fierce hate. Sebastian wondered if any of the ire was meant for him, for his betrayal, but dared not ask. “Sent him away, true, but let him live. Thrice if you consider she’d have killed any other abomination outright.”

“Is she—?”

Fenris’ glower silenced him at once, and Sebastian was forced to swallow hard around the knot of words he was not allowed to speak. He was the one who’d walked away, after all. He knew that. It still ached.

After a moment, Fenris said, “I know where he is.”

Perhaps rage was a fuel that burned hot and fast, but it was also dry tinder, lit by the mere breath of a spark. Sebastian was on his feet at once, bow readied, chin lifted, shoulders straight. Fenris’ gaze shifted, turned appraising, but the elf said nothing more. He only walked away and began the slow ascent back to the world of light and smoke and Sebastian’s nightmares.

#

Like Sebastian, the abomination had not gone far. Like Sebastian, he’d gone the opposite place anyone might have expected to find him.

Sebastian’s imagination had spared no detail once that red light lit up Kirkwall’s skies and Anders uttered the words _There can be no peace_ , and yet still the reality was worse. It was _beyond_ imagining. Half of Hightown had been flattened by the blast. He wanted to ask Fenris about the Hawke estate, about the elf’s own mansion, but he suspected these questions, like the one about Hawke, would be met with cold silence. So Sebastian did not ask. And then, when they turned the corner, he found he had no words at all. Only pain. Only anger. And the anger burned. Oh, how it burned.

The chantry courtyard was a mass of rubble, with the remains of twisted statuary clawing from the ruins like limbs of the undead. And there, amongst the broken stones, under the too-empty sky, huddled the monster.

The abomination did not run when he saw them. It was Sebastian who nearly fled, overwhelmed as he was by the destruction. Instead, he put an arrow to his bowstring. It felt good and right and _just_ looking past the arrow’s point and seeing Anders there. He ought to have done this three days ago, Hawke’s wishes—her reluctance, her _cowardice_ —be damned. He ought to have done this three _years_ ago, when he first suspected the mage was not entirely truthful in his dealings with any of them. He ought to have—

The monster spoke first, and Sebastian found himself wishing the voice sounded different. Instead he only sounded weary and contemptuous and just a little irritated. Just like always. “She wouldn’t do it herself, so she sends her dogs instead?” His lips twisted in a hard, bitter smile. “Why am I not surprised? She never could stand to get her hands dirty.”

“Hawke does not know of this,” Fenris replied, with a great deal more composure than Sebastian felt. “Nor will she.”

The abomination’s ugly smile widened. “Really? Hawke’s little puppy has learned to think for himself? I’m almost proud of you, Fenris.”

“Silence, abomination.”

The mage raised his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes were still sharp and shrewd. It occurred to Sebastian to wonder that things hadn’t come to blows between Anders and Fenris long before this. Hawke. Hawke had always stood between them, played mediator, tried to see all sides. He’d always valued that trait, always thought it was one of her great strengths, always wanted to emulate it, even.

But then Hawke had refused to see justice done, even in the face of admission and absolute guilt.

“Why are you _here_?” Sebastian choked out, hardly recognizing the sound of his own voice. “Why are you here of all places?”

A shadow passed over the mage’s face, so swift Sebastian almost missed it entirely. “I have been looking for survivors.”

A sudden burn of hope almost as powerful as the ever-present rage made Sebastian’s hand tremble, and the point of his arrow shifted ever so slightly. “And?”

The lack of reply was answer enough.

Sebastian felt his fingertips release the arrow, but it never found its mark. A flash of fire incinerated the shaft, and another small pile of ashes was added to the layer already coating the once-white stones.

“Why?” Sebastian asked, the word torn from him like a sob. “Why _here_? It was the templars you hated. The Grand Cleric never did anything to you.”

“You have that mostly right,” the mage retorted. “The Grand Cleric never did _anything_. Period. Even when she ought to have! A lie of omission is still a lie, just as inaction can be considered action, when inaction leads to horror, to oppression. She was the voice of the Chantry, the silent head. The Knight-Commander was only an arm. A body can fight without an arm.”

“But not without a head,” Sebastian breathed, his stomach twisting. “And the others? The innocents? What did they do? What were they to you? Fingers? Toes? _Unnecessary_?”

“I’d have spared them if I could.”

“No,” Sebastian snapped. “You may tell yourself that, but _you_ did this. All of it. You _could_ have spared them. You could have spared them _all_. Their blood—”

“—Is on my hands. You say it as though I’m not _aware_. I… regret the innocent lives lost, of course I do—”

“ _No_ ,” Sebastian repeated, nocking another arrow and aiming the point for the abomination’s lying throat. “You were a _healer_ , Anders. _Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children._ ”

“Don’t quote your blighted Chant at me, Vael.”

“ _They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond._ ”

“You think innocents won’t die when you—how did you put it exactly? I believe you said you would bring such an army with you on your return to Kirkwall there would be nothing left for any Maleficarum to rule? That sounds like a lot of corpses, all to enact a little revenge. Here’s a quotation for you: _Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker._ Are you ready for that, Vael? To be hated and accursed by your own god? Because somehow I don’t think hunting mages—a _single_ mage—is going to count as adequate _provocation_.”

Sebastian swallowed hard, hating the way the mage turned his own words against him, and yet knowing— _knowing_ —the bastard had the right of it. “What need will there be for that, when I swear on all that is holy I will end this here, now?”

The monster arched an eyebrow and shook his head. “Oh, you do a lot of _swearing_ , don’t you? It’s always one vow or another with you. Forgive me for not trembling in my boots, but you so rarely _follow through_.”

Again Sebastian felt a pang of dismay, of embarrassment. _Do not interfere, Sebastian._ Shaking his head, he aimed his arrow once more, pulling the white fletching back toward his cheek. “You shall know the Maker’s wrath, abomination. I will not stay my hand, and Hawke is not here to stand between us now.”

“But it’s not the Maker’s wrath, _hypocrite_ , is it? It’s _yours_.” A second controlled flash of fire destroyed another arrow, this time before it could fly, nearly burning Sebastian’s hand in the process. “And for all your self-righteousness, you’re _not_ actually a templar, so you can’t smite me or silence me or do whatever you like with me just because you want it.”

When all the arrows in Sebastian’s quiver began to burn at once, he was forced to fling the leather away from his body.

The abomination was _toying_ with him.

And while the monster was distracted, while he was playing games and burning arrows, he’d evidently overlooked Fenris. The elf was always such a whirlwind on the battlefield, Sebastian had almost forgotten how silent he could be, how fast. While they’d traded their words and jabs and quotations from the Chant, Fenris had moved near enough—just near enough—that it only took one leap to bring him behind the mage. One arm went around the abomination’s throat. The other, glowing bright, plunged through his back and into his chest.

But Anders did not die. Nor did he rain magic down upon them.

He screamed.

“I am no templar, mage,” Fenris growled. Sebastian could hardly hear him over the howls of agony—truly, he could not understand how the abomination was still alive, but he was. The screams proved so. “But I do not need to be. Danarius required a weapon effective against other magisters most of all, and he prepared me well.” Fenris lifted his gaze to meet Sebastian’s; the elf was angry, but so very _controlled_ , and it was the control that frightened him most of all.

“Do it,” Fenris commanded. “Now, Vael. Take the life, but do not make a torture of it. There is no honor in that.”

Because his arrows had all been reduced to ashes, Sebastian was forced to draw the knife he kept at his belt for emergencies. The hilt felt strange in his hand, and at first he believed it was only because it had been so long since he’d had cause to use it. Then he realized it was because his palms were slick with sweat.

The abomination’s cries had gone hoarse, but were no less pained, no less frantic. His head was flung back against Fenris’ shoulder, held in place by the choking grip of the elf’s arm.

Sebastian did not ask why Fenris did not simply kill the mage the way he’d killed Hadriana and Danarius and Gascard du Puis. He knew.

Fenris was giving him his revenge. A life for a life. Anders for Elthina. Justice.

 _Death is never justice._

 _Do not interfere._

Yet as he drew near, useless bow in one hand and knife in the other, Sebastian could not shake the wretched, uncomfortable feeling he was approaching a sacrifice. It was the way the abomination was held—defenseless, broken, screaming—and the unshakable ruthlessness in the elf’s eyes. The mage had already proven he could defeat Sebastian face to face, magic against bow, and it felt… dishonorable to kill him this way.

Then again, perhaps this, too, was just, all things considered. Nothing— _nothing_ —could be less honorable than the way the chantry had been destroyed.

 _Death is never justice._

He wasn't certain he could believe that, in light of everything.

Sebastian had to respect the abomination’s willpower, if nothing else. He found the strength to silence his cries as Sebastian drew near. His lips curled in a blood-stained sneer—whatever Fenris was doing was causing damage, and for the first time the mage was unable to heal himself. His eyes flashed blue, and the strange network of lines that so horrified Sebastian—had always horrified him—overspread his face. “Do it,” the voice that was both man and spirit, man and demon, commanded, echoing Fenris. “End it. _Choose_.”

It was easier, somehow, when faced with those blue eyes. Sebastian brought his knife up to the pale strip of throat left bared beneath Fenris’ arm. The eyes snapped back to brown then, but it was too late.

Sebastian had already pushed.

And brown eyes or blue, Sebastian was standing close enough to see the life go out of them.

Blood flowed hot and horrible over his hands, forcing him to release the blade. Fenris removed his hand from the abom—from Anders’ chest, but did not immediately drop the body. With a strangely gentle grace, the elf cupped the mage’s face between his palms.

And twisted.

The sound of bones snapping echoed eerily in the empty, destroyed courtyard, and a shiver shuddered sympathetically down the length of Sebastian’s spine.

Fenris then lowered the body to the ground, crossing his arms over his chest.

They both had blood on their hands.

“What will—?”

Fenris interrupted him. “I will dispose of the body. He will be no martyr, no second Andraste. No one will know of this.”

Sebastian gasped as sudden realization slammed into him with more force than a fist to the solar plexus. He very nearly bent double, but pride—the last vestiges of his shattered pride—kept him upright. “That—that’s why she didn’t want to kill him then.”

“You are a fool if you think she was unaffected by his actions, Sebastian. Perhaps she did not love the Grand Cleric as you did, but she respected the woman. Hawke had no wish to be cast as villain in the tales they will tell of Anders.”

“And there will be tales.”

The look Fenris gave him bordered on pitying. “Of course there will be tales. Even if Varric were able to keep his mouth shut, there would be tales. Now those stories will end with their so-called savior’s sudden and cowardly disappearance, and not his martyr’s death at the hands of the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Sebastian raised his hand halfway to his face, but stopped himself from putting his fingers to his brow when he saw how bloody they were.

“What will you tell Hawke?”

“That is my concern, not yours.”

“But, I—”

Once again, Fenris’ markings flared to lyrium-silver life. “No, Vael. You made your choice. Nothing remains for you here. Take Starkhaven, or don’t. Find another chantry, or don’t. It is of little consequence. Today our paths part, and they will not cross again.”

Sebastian blinked, and was forced to grip his bow tighter. Even so, it nearly slipped from his hand; his fingers had gone numb, and his heart was thudding almost painfully in his breast. Fenris acknowledged none of this, his eyes hard in the strange light his own skin cast.

“Then why did you—?”

Fenris shook his head, silencing him. “He is dead. You have seen justice done with your own eyes. You have done it by your own hand. You walked away from her because you wanted him killed and you thought her unwilling to cede to your wishes. Had I killed him without you witnessing it—without you participating—you would not have let it rest. Now it is over. And now you must leave.” Sebastian very nearly protested, but Fenris’ eyes softened, just a little, and he bent his neck until the fall of his hair covered his eyes. Then, softly, intently, he added, “You will never threaten her again. Never.”

Fenris knelt, removing the mage’s distinctive coat and thrusting it into Sebastian’s arms, where it tangled with his bow. “Destroy that. It is too recognizable. I will take care of the rest.”

“Fenris,” Sebastian pleaded, “please tell her—”

“No,” Fenris repeated. Then he rose, hoisting the corpse over his shoulder. Blood had matted the blond hair, darkened it. Indeed, without the coat the corpse looked very little like Anders.

 _Do not interfere, Sebastian._

Sebastian stood in the shadows of the chantry courtyard, surrounded by ghosts, clutching the coat of a dead man, watching his old life end, feeling the last vestiges of his rage sputter and die. As Fenris turned a corner and disappeared, Sebastian was left knowing what he should have understood all along: when the tinder was lit, when fire flared and blazed and died, when the fuel burned out, only ashes were left.


End file.
